The Rogue's Proposal Read online

  “I see why you suspect Morton after reading this. This certainly implicates him in the murder of your husband. And it implicates this Macmillan fellow as an accomplice.”

  “Yes.” Her gaze was flat and impenetrable. He wondered if she mourned Curtis. She seemed more angry than heartbroken.

  “How was he killed?”

  She looked down at the hands clasped in her lap. “Drowned in the Avon. At first, we thought nothing of it. It wasn’t the first time he’d been gone all night, and—”

  “He’d been gone all night?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Where to?”

  Her chest rose and fell, drawing his eyes to her bosom.

  For hell’s sake, Luke, focus!

  “I don’t know. I thought perhaps one of the taverns on the waterfront. Or maybe one of the gaming hells—”

  “How long had you been married?” He’d forgotten what she’d told him last night; he knew only that it had not been long.

  “Three months.”

  He narrowed his eyes. What kind of newlywed man would leave his wife—especially a wife who was as fine a creature as Emma—alone at home while he went off to carouse in a common, dirty tavern or a dishonest gaming hell?

  Gazing at her pink cheeks and pale complexion, at those sinful lips, he blew out a breath. “How did you learn about his death?”

  “By the following night, I was very worried. He’d never been gone that long. My sister and I alerted the authorities, and they began to search for him. Witnesses told the constable that he had been drunk, that they’d seen him leaving a pub and heading toward the riverfront with another man. Later they found Henry’s sodden, ruined coat and then nearby a soiled handkerchief embroidered with the initials R.M. I thought the discovery of the handkerchief was a random occurrence until I discovered Roger Morton’s involvement later.”

  Emma twisted her hands in her lap as the servants arrived with food and a basin of water. There wasn’t space for all of it on the tiny table, so Luke directed them to place the items in various locations on the bed and the floor.

  She didn’t look at him as he washed as best as he could without removing his clothes. Then he moved the table closer to the bed and laid the tray of food on it. He gestured for her to move her chair across the table from him as he used the edge of the bed as his chair. She was still gazing into her lap, her shoulders rising and falling with each deep intake of breath.

  “Come, Emma,” he said softly. “Eat.”

  She looked up at him for the first time in several minutes. Then she nodded and dragged the chair a few inches so she could sit on the other side of the table from him.

  The meal was simple country fare, but delicious. The smells of gravy and roasted meat wafted through the room. A pigeon pie, roasted vegetables, an apple tart, and weak ale to wash it all down. Luke divided the portions equally between their two plates and didn’t pick up his own fork until she had hers in hand and was moving the food around on her plate.

  “Sorry,” he said softly.

  She looked at him in surprise. “About what?”

  He shrugged. “Forcing you to relive it all. I can see it is painful for you.”

  “Yes. Well,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes, instead seeming fascinated by her food. They ate in silence for a long moment. Then she said, “Tell me about the duchess. What happened to her?”

  “Ah, my mother. Another dismal topic.”

  Her lips twisted. “Sorry.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s all right.” Silence reigned while he ate a savory bite of pigeon pie. “What have you heard about what happened to my mother?”

  “Not very much. Just that she went missing this past spring. I’ve heard recently that the duke and his family have begun to fear the worst.”

  Luke scowled down at his food. “Well, all that is true. And unfortunately, even after all these months, we don’t have much information. All we have is Roger Morton.”

  She leaned forward a bit. “How did you link him to her disappearance?”

  “When my mother disappeared from Ironwood Park, she took two of her servants with her. The maid—well, she died.” He still couldn’t banish the image of Binnie’s naked body on that table—so cold and stiff and white and pale. He and his brother had caught an anatomist in the midst of his lecture on the viscera just as he had been about to cut Binnie open.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said.

  He gave her a dismal look, not really knowing how to respond. “It took us months to find the manservant, but when we finally did, he informed us that a man named Roger Morton had taken my mother from Ironwood Park and brought her to Wales, where he kept her at a house in Cardiff. After several weeks, my mother dismissed the servants, so we know nothing more.”

  Emma frowned, the skin between her eyebrows puckering. “Was Morton involved in a…liaison…with your mother?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know for certain. But from the way the servant described it, he deferred to her. As though he were a servant. Not the way my mother usually behaves with her lovers.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Yes, she has had many lovers,” he said dryly. “Although I must give her some credit. I only ever saw a half dozen or so of them, though I know of more. She made an attempt at discretion. A rather weak attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.”

  “Goodness.” She seemed to not know what else to say. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Emma asked him, “Did you search for them in Cardiff?”

  “I did, but both Morton and my mother were long gone. No one could tell me whether they left town together or separately. All I could find was a man in a pub who knew someone by that name. Described him the same as my mother’s servant had—dark hair, dark eyes, nondescript features. Said he used to live in Bristol and frequented the taverns and hells and bawdy houses here. Said there was a good chance I’d find him in Bristol.”

  “So you came here.”

  He took some apple tart, chewed, and swallowed the tangy, sweet bite. “So I came here.”

  “And now…Scotland?” she asked him.

  “And now I will find this Macmillan fellow in Scotland to see if he has any further information on Morton’s whereabouts,” he agreed. Edinburgh was a hell of a long way away—almost four hundred miles. It would take a great deal of time and energy for them to get there. But he’d go. He’d no other choice—this “C. Macmillan” was currently his only clue.

  Emma looked down at her plate, poking her fork into a baked apple slice. “I have wanted to go to Edinburgh ever since I found the letter—but I simply couldn’t find a way.”

  Right. A woman, alone. Her husband dead. All her money gone—stolen. It would be nigh impossible for someone like her to travel the distance alone.

  Still, it seemed odd she’d turn to Luke—a single man and a complete stranger.

  “Don’t you have family? Someone who could have helped you?”

  “No. My father is ill, and my sister needs to stay to care for him. Other than that, we’ve only an elderly grandmother who lives in Leeds.”

  “Servants?”

  “Only one left. She must stay as well.” She looked up at him with bleak amber eyes. “Jane will need her help.”

  “You know why I ask, don’t you? This will destroy your reputation.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “I thought you said you wouldn’t give a second thought to such matters.”

  “I wouldn’t.” He shrugged. “But you might wish to.” He met her eyes levelly. “I’ve been responsible for the ruination of a young woman before. It was highly unpleasant.”

  “For you, or for the young woman?” she asked.

  “For the young woman. I escaped unscathed.”

  Emma’s lips twisted. “I’m sure you did. I must say, I am honored that you are showing such concern, my lord—”

  “Luke.”

  “Luke. But, really, my reputation is my concern, not yours.”

/>   “Of course,” he said mildly. He gave her a carefree grin that said the subject was closed. But something inside him felt tangled and disconcerted. Worried on her behalf.

  Really, he shouldn’t give a damn about her reputation. He’d never concerned himself with society’s perception of the ladies he associated with, and he had no idea why he would start now.

  In any case, every bit of him was looking forward to tearing down Emma Curtis’s defenses…and making her beg.

  Chapter Three

  He’s joking, Emma thought.

  She stood on the curb in front of the inn, staring at a curricle. A curricle, not a chaise or a coach, which was what she had expected when Luke had gone off in search of a vehicle that would transport them to Scotland.

  Before he’d left, he’d ordered her to wait in the room at the inn. She had been tempted to argue—she knew where to go in Bristol for the best prices on just about anything. But she’d also understood the wisdom in not being seen in town with him. She knew too many people here.

  Still, it seemed Lord Lukas was more concerned about her reputation than he cared to admit. That thought gave her a tiny, pleasant flicker inside. A warm, strange glow she’d never felt before.

  He gazed down at her from the perch where he held the ribbons. His black coat hugged his shoulders in a way that made her breath quicken. He looked dashing and handsome. Like a man-about-town. A dandy trying to catch the eyes of ladies—and succeeding at it if the two tittering young women casting glances at him and giggling from the other side of the road were any indication.

  He looked like a carefree London gentleman. Not like a man who was about to depart on an arduous four-hundred-mile journey across the country.

  He grinned that mischievous grin of his, and his blue eyes sparkled in the noontime sunlight. “What do you think?”

  Other carriages—more acceptable modes of transportation—traversed the road behind him. The street smelled of the city—Bristol had a salty tang to it, as if it could never quite wash the ocean residue from its streets. People walked in and out of the busy inn, their coats drawn tight like her own pelisse was.

  When she didn’t answer Luke’s question, he stepped down and secured the horses, then came to stand beside her.

  “I obtained it for an excellent price.” Taking her elbow and steering her around to the back of the spindly thing, he added, “This is a traveling curricle. You see—they added a boot to the area where the tiger is meant to stand.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer a chaise?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

  He arched a cocky eyebrow at her. “No. Then I’d have to hire a driver.”

  He was a duke’s brother. Surely he was in possession of the funds to hire a driver. She frowned at him.

  “I prefer to do the driving myself, Emma. If I’m not to ride my own horse across England, then at least I can drive.”

  She tried not to flinch at that. She knew her presence was an inconvenience to him, knew that he’d ridden into town on a lone mount. He wouldn’t have needed to secure a carriage at all if she hadn’t demanded to join him.

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “I understand. But…it seems…frail. I have my doubts as to whether it can endure traveling the length of England.”

  She had visions of hitting a rock in the road and it crashing into splinters. Splinters in the case of the carriage. A mass of bloody, broken limbs for her and Luke’s part, as well as the poor horses’.

  She looked at them—a slender and lithe gray and a stout black. A mismatched pair if she’d ever seen one.

  Luke’s blue eyes slid toward her, and he squeezed her elbow gently. “Are you afraid?” he asked softly. “I don’t believe this will be a journey for the fearful.”

  “I’m not afraid of the journey,” she said, her shoulders firming. “I’m afraid of this carriage. Do you intend to kill us?”

  “Not you,” he said.

  What did that mean? She didn’t know how to respond to that, so instead she continued. “And the weather is changing. What if it rains?”

  “There is a hood.”

  She turned to face him, her brows furrowed in a scowl, and she tried not to grind her teeth too furiously. “Yes. I see the hood.” It was a tiny thing that would provide less cover than a flimsy umbrella.

  He gazed at her, one eyebrow quirked up, his eyes glowing with bemusement.

  She gestured toward the back of the curricle, where the hood had been folded down. “That will keep us dry in a ten-minute drizzle. On a day of hard travel through pouring rain? We’ll be soaked through, then catch pneumonia, and”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that we’ll be dead.”

  He chuckled. “In days of heavy rain, then, I propose that we stay ensconced in the warm, dry comfort of the nearest inn. In bed, of course.”

  Emma gave him a narrow-eyed look, but there was nothing she could do. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she certainly didn’t have the means to obtain a more comfortable mode of transportation herself.

  “Very well,” she said, sighing. “I shall just pray you’re not leading us to our deaths.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, they had left the city of Bristol behind and were heading north on the Bristol Road under a cool, watery blue sky. They would not travel far today, because it was already midafternoon and it grew dark early this time of year.

  Consulting one of the books of the two-volume Paterson’s British Itinerary Luke had laid on the seat, Emma had determined they should stop at a place called the Cambridge Inn near the village of Slimbridge.

  “Good,” Luke had said. “We will continue on this route to Worcester. We should arrive there tomorrow night, and then we’ll stay there an extra day and night before continuing northward.”

  “Why?” she’d asked him, frowning. Now that they were on their way, the thought of any delay made her squirm. She wished she could simply close her eyes and transport them both to Edinburgh in an instant.

  “I’ve some business to attend to there. Trust me, I’m as eager to find Morton as you are, but this is something I must do.”

  And that was the only explanation he’d offered. Emma folded her hands in her lap and said nothing. She was wildly curious. But whatever he needed to do in Worcester was technically none of her concern.

  She settled back in her seat and watched him. In an instant, he went from being easygoing and relaxed to firm and commanding. His eyes would flash with bright humor and then simmer in darkness.

  He was a complicated man. He confused her. Unsettled her. He was nothing like she’d expected him to be. But now she realized her expectations hadn’t been fair. He was the Duke of Trent’s brother, and she’d pictured him as the embodiment of his brother’s stellar reputation. Probably even the Duke of Trent himself wasn’t the embodiment of his own reputation.

  Ultimately, she was glad Luke wasn’t anything like she’d expected. If he had been, he’d never have allowed her to come with him.

  And…this man was far more fascinating than she ever could have imagined.

  He glanced at her, his blue eyes catching a gleam from the fading sunlight. Something inside her clenched hard. He was so handsome—that was one thing about him she’d predicted. But her reaction to his beauty was far, far more intense than she’d expected.

  “You’re staring at me,” he observed mildly.

  “Sorry.” She jerked her head away and stared out over the horses’ heads. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  He laughed, that quicksilver joy shining through before it evaporated just as rapidly. “No, Emma.” His voice was husky. “Look all you like.”

  “Very well, I shall.” She was feeling mulish and twitchy inside her skin. And it was growing colder, the wind biting through not only her pelisse and dress and undergarments but the blanket on her lap as well. It would probably snow at some point on their journey—and then he’d see what little good that silly hood would do.

  She pulled the woole
n blanket he’d bought tighter over her lap and shivered. She wished she’d brought a heavier coat—she hadn’t predicted she’d be journeying outdoors on an open seat.

  Maybe she should stop having expectations at all when it came to this man.

  Do you like to be bound, Mrs. Curtis?

  She shivered again.

  “Are you cold?” he said.

  “No,” she lied.

  “I see.” He slanted a glance down at her. “Pull up the blanket to cover your shoulders,” he ordered.

  She bristled at the rather high-handed command, but she did as she was told, wrapping the blanket over her chest and tucking it behind her shoulders.

  “Better?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  He turned the horses around a sharp bend in the road. Emma hung on for dear life; every time they turned, it felt like the curricle would flip them to their deaths.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” he said, clearly amused.

  She glared at him. “This carriage is meant to shoot about on London’s perfect roads, not to traverse the ruts and rocks of England’s country lanes.”

  “Ah. I see you’ve never been to London.”

  “I have been to London,” she retorted. “I had two Seasons there.”

  “Is that where you met your husband?”

  “It was. Not at any of the Season’s events, mind. I met him in London during my second Season.”

  “How long was your courtship?”

  “Almost a year. When the Season ended, I returned to Bristol with my father and Jane. Henry and I began a correspondence.”

  “I see. Where did he hail from?” Luke’s voice was flat, modulated, so was she imagining the edge to it? But then again, why would he be anything but curious about her murdered husband?

  “London.”

  “So you maintained a correspondence. How did this lead to marriage?”

  “He proposed marriage via a letter to my father that winter.”

  “And your father said yes. You did, too.”

  She squirmed a little. What a naïve, stupid little girl she’d been. So taken with the handsome and dashing Henry Curtis. He had a curricle like this one, but smaller and even more dangerous. Riding in it had made her feel so reckless and wild, so brazen. The first time he’d taken her riding in Hyde Park and kissed her behind an elm tree, she’d been so breathless and excited she’d nearly swooned.